


Near Death

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Allison, Angst, Canon Divergent, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post!Nogitsune, pre-season four, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is struggling with the aftermath of the Nogitsune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blinding Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Been sitting on this for a while. Should be about six chapters. Nothing crazy exciting. Mostly pre-slash.

“… Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light…”

\- _Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night_ by Dylan Thomas

* * *

Stiles hates tree roots.  He might even hate trees.  But mostly the roots, like thick spider webs across the forest floor, hidden beneath the natural decay that comes each autumn.  Stiles hates them, and he hates running in the dark, and he hates the resounding throb that comes from his ankle when it twists.

He can’t afford to be in pain.  He has to _run_.  He has to—

A twig snaps, and Stiles scrambles.  He tries to get on his feet, but the sharp ache that shocks up his right leg has him falling back into the leaves.  So he scuttles, dirt under his fingernails as he claws forward—to get away, to _try_ and get away—struggling to get to the base of a tree.

The bark scrapes his palm open, blood sharp in the air, and Stiles grits his teeth as he tries to push onto his feet again.  His ankles throbs; he presses flush against the tree.

There is a growl behind him.  Not wolf.

“Stiles!” He hears Scott call to him, but he’s already got his eyes shut tight—there is a Primal behind him with glowing green eyes, and the damn thing wants to eat Stiles’ insides.

A squealing yelp catches him off guard, and he turns to see Isaac tackling the Primal to the ground.  He lets out a shuddering breath, shoulders slumping, and winces as the Primal—poor possessed son of a bitch from his English class—takes a bit of Isaac’s forearm.  The Beta growls, eyes an angry gold, and he spares Stiles a glance.

“Run,” he hisses.

Stiles laughs, hysteric, and does his best to stumble away.  Every couple of steps, he falters, stalls, and collapses to the ground before getting back up again. He’s covered in dirt and there is blood down his fingertips as he limps along.

Derek rushes by to help Isaac.  Scott doesn’t stop—can’t—but he calls back to Stiles to tell him to keep going when he sprints by too.  His eyes are red and determined; Stiles is proud but flustered.  He tries to keep moving.

There is a loud crack and Stiles goes still.  Fear is electric in his chest, and he turns back to stare into the darkness. _No, no, no._

“Scott?” he asks.

There’s silence for a moment.  “Yeah?”

Stiles lets out a tight breath, shoulders slumping.  “Tell me you didn’t kill him.

Stiles flails, trying to move back towards them.  He’s angry and scared.  His heart is beating rapidly, nearly out of his chest, and his throat constricts.  He nearly falls, but then there’s an arm around his waist, holding him up.

The Primal is a human possessed by an animal spirit.  Stiles had done the research, and Deaton had told him that it was easily reversible.  No death needed.  Stiles doesn't think he can take more death.

“He’s alive,” someone says.  Peter, Stiles realizes after he stops straining to hear a heartbeat— _any_ heartbeat, in the thick of the dark despite his very human ears—is the one holding him up.  Peter is the one assuring him.

Stiles should be worried about that.  He’s too busy trying to push away; his skin is cold, stomach twisting, hating the feeling of someone touching him.

“He’s just unconscious,” Derek adds as he draws close, the Primal slung over his shoulder.  “Come on.  Let’s get him to the clinic.  I’m sure the girls are there with the other one.”

“Right,” Stiles nods, tries to pull out of Peter’s hold, and lets out an exasperated sound when Peter just pulls him closer with a smile that makes Stiles’ teeth grit.  “Let go.”

“You can’t walk.”

“I’m _fine_ —“

“You okay, man?” Scott asks, brows furrowed. 

“I believe he’s twisted his ankle—“

“I’m _fine_ ,” Stiles cuts Peter off, elbowing him—he’s pretty sure it’s going to bruise.  “Let me go.”

Peter sighs heavily, releasing his hold on Stiles with a disinterested expression, and Stiles nearly collapses.  He’s lucky Scott is there to catch him.

“What happened?” Isaac asks as he walks towards them; he’s got a split lip that’s already healing and Stiles hates them all a little bit.

“Nothing.”

“The human sprained his ankle.”

Stiles sneers over at Peter.

Scott huffs out a laugh, taking most of Stiles’ weight with a smile.  “I got you, dude.  Let’s get to Deaton’s.”

“ _Lame_.” Stiles grunts, but he leans into Scott’s side as the Alpha helps him along.

* * *

 

The thing about Primals is that they’re messy.  Think Joss Whedon’s Reavers messy.  Primals are anger in human form: pure rage.  And they're fond of taking it out on the local populace in the form of cannibalism.  Sometimes sex.  And sometimes both at the same time.

Yeah. Messy.

It isn’t the possessed’s fault though.  So once they catch the two strays—a local teacher and one of the underclassmen from their school—they have to reverse the magic.  Deaton has everything he needs to take care of it, and the majority of their rag tag Pack are in the back room with him helping. 

Only Allison and Peter stay with Stiles in the waiting room.  It’s a bit awkward for all of them, but Stiles is fidgeting for his own reasons.  He helped kill one of them and then almost was the cause of Allison’s death.  Stiles’ jaw flexes and he keeps his gaze on the floor in front of him while he tries to ignore the throb of his ankle.

Everything with the Nogitsune has passed.  It’s been at least a month since Scott gave the Bite to a thousand year old spirit, but the effects of the creature still hangs over all of them.  Mostly Stiles.

“That was kind of easy,” Allison says, finally breaking the silence.  “I mean, easier than usual.”

“Amazing what a little team work can do,” Stiles adds derisively.

Allison laughs.  “Yeah.  You might still need some work, though.”

Stiles looks over at her with wide eyes—she’s teasing, _she’s teasing_ , for the first time in a _month_ , and Stiles might _cry._  “You wound me.”  He replies, just as playful.

“You’re already wounded.” Allison says with a coy smile.

Stiles returns it.

Peter rolls his eyes.  “Are you both finished?”

Stiles glares his way, lips pursed.  He looks like he might berate the man for a moment, but then Kira’s head is poking out of the door.  She’s breathless and kind of flush, eyes wide.

“Allison? We could use a hand.”

Stiles moves to follow as Allison heads into the room without question, but he falls back into his chair gracelessly the second he puts weight on his bad leg.  Hissing, he squeezes his eyes shut and grinds his teeth together.  His ankle is swollen, but he did well hiding it from everyone once they got to the clinic.  They know he’s hurt, but Stiles doesn’t want them to know how _much_.

Peter’s gaze is on him and Stiles hates that too.  Hates him and hidden tree roots and stupid people who get themselves possessed—mostly himself.

“You should prop it up,” Peter tells him.

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing down at his own foot.

“Stop being petulant,” Peter says, pushing himself away from where he’d been leaning against the wall and moves to his side. 

Pulling up a chair, Peter takes a seat in front of him and leans down.  Stiles’ heart jumps at the proximity.  He isn’t used to being close to people much anymore, tends to avoid it.  His nerves have been too fried since the Nogitsune crawled out wearing his skin.  Peter scoops up his leg, looking unfairly bored, and Stiles bites back a shout. 

Foot resting against Peter’s thigh, Stiles shakes.  It was one thing when he was walking and needed the support.  He doesn’t like this, he _hates_ this, he—

“How bad is it?” Peter demands.

He always demands, never asks. Peter is the only one who doesn’t treat him like glass even after he’s already broken.  Stiles shrugs.

“I’m going to take your shoe off and see,” Peter says.  Stiles watches.  When a clawed finger cuts through the laces Stiles squawks.  “I’ll make Derek replace them.”

Then he pulls Stiles’ shoe off.  It isn’t exactly gentle.  He tugs his sock off next and then folds the hem of his jeans up.  Peter’s nose wrinkles at the blue and purple of it.

“It might be broken.”

“Peachy,” Stiles sighs.

He winces when Peter touches it and tries to pull away, but then there’s the easy wash of heat—like water running over his skin, and Stiles relaxes as he watches the inky black veins spiderweb up Peter’s forearm.  It makes Stiles frown, though he mutters his gratitude warily.  He watches, and tension eases as Peter pulls the pain out of him until Stiles’ entire leg is numb.  He wonders if he were to ask, if Peter would make him feel numb all over.

“You don’t talk much anymore.” Peter says.

Stiles shrugs a shoulder, but it’s true.  Stiles has been different.  Distant and guilty.  They all notice, but there’s nothing to say.  There’s nothing they _could_ say.  Stiles hates himself; he knows they can all smell it on him, like black licorice and decay.  There’s nothing that they can do to change it.

“You should talk more.”

Stiles’ brow lifts; Peter smiles in a way that is purely condescending.

“It might help.” Peter adds and pats Stiles’ ankle with a touch of harshness—it twinges and Stiles’ toes twitch.  “Avoiding a problem won’t make it go away.  Just because you can’t feel it, doesn’t mean you’re not injured.”

“Are you seriously shrinking me right now?”

Peter hums, tiling his head.  “I don’t like this you.  There’s no spirit.  No fire.  No _spark_.  Where’s the fun in that?”

Stiles snorts.  “You’d certainly know what fire looks like, wouldn’t you?”

Peter’s grin is all teeth.  “I would.”

They hold each other’s gazes for a long moment.  Stiles feels the silence like a weight in his chest.  It is numbing enough for him, for now.  It keeps his mind off of the voice in his head that he still hears sometimes.

“Do you miss it?” Stiles asks.

“What?”

“Not feeling guilty?”

Peter regards him, eyes keen on Stiles’ features.  Stiles is still shivering, still coming down from an adrenaline high, still so unused to having someone touch him for this long.  His fingers drum listlessly. 

“Yes.  But these days I’m used to the sensation of burning.” Peter finally says.

Stiles nods slowly.

Peter stands, placing Stiles’ foot delicately on the seat of the chair.  “I’m going to get some ice before that swelling gets worse.”

Stiles doesn’t say thank you and he doesn’t ask why Peter is being so _nice_.  Peter probably knows anyways.


	2. I am Inhabited By a Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that Peter seems a bit out of character (at least in my opinion), but all will make sense in future chapters.

“…Is it the sea you hear in me,

Its dissatisfactions?

Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?...”

\- _Elm_ by Sylvia Plath

 

* * *

Summer has come.  It’s hot where they are in northern California, though the town is grateful to be so inland if only for escaping the humidity of the coast.  The days are filled with mild summer jobs, with parties and time spent soaking up all the sun has to offer.

Stiles is grateful that he doesn’t have to go to school and pretend anymore.  He spends a great deal of his time at home.  John doesn’t question it—his father is too relieved to have his son back and alive to question much of anything—but sometimes he gives Stiles these sad, hopeful looks.  Like maybe they’ll wake up one Sunday morning and Stiles will be fifteen again, all bright and shiny like he was before werewolves and fox spirits and magic.  It makes Stiles ache.

Two weeks into break while his dad is away at work, Scott shows up at his door with a bag of curly fries and an entire liter of Dr. Pepper.  Stiles smiles and it doesn’t quite meet his gaze, but he lets him in anyways.  That’s how they end up in his living room playing Call of Duty and Stiles is kicking ass as a digital Slayer.

“Man, I wish I could move like that,” he says and knows it doesn’t fall on deaf ears because then Scott is looking at him from his side of the couch (Stiles still needs boundaries).

“You could,” Scott replies earnestly.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “I can barely manage my way across the lacrosse field.”

They go back to slaughtering the masses of the undead. Stiles thinks it’s the end of the conversation.

* * *

It isn’t.  That weekend, Stiles ends up on the Hale property with the rest of their group.  Stiles stares at the house for a long time when he pulls up in his Jeep because there is a fresh foundation and a frame work being built.  The skeleton of a new Hale manor is being layed out, and Stiles is more than just surprised.

He climbs out in ratty sneakers and sweat pants and a shirt that’s so big he’s practically swimming in it.  The second he shuts the door, Scott is emerging from the construction site with a crooked grin that makes Stiles feel punched for a moment.  He hovers between staying and running because something is telling him this is good—and that’s bad.

“Come on,” Scott says.  “Everyone is in the back.”

When Scott says everyone, he certainly means it.  Their entire Pack—if you can call them that—and then some are in what would be the backyard if the house behind him was complete.  Chris Argent is there, and isn’t that odd, and he and Allison are talking with Kira—who has a bow unsteadily balanced in her hands.  There are targets on the trees, and Stiles’ head tilts.

Scott looks like he might want to clap a reassuring hand at Stiles’ shoulder, but he refrains, fingers twitching at his sides.  Fresh wood creeks under Stiles’ feet, planks easing into place; Stiles is still confused.

Isaac and Derek are leaning over a makeshift table.  It’s a large piece of plywood and two sawing blocks that hold it up; there is a long piece of paper pinned to it with the designs for the house printed over in intricate detail.  Blueprints.  Derek points to something, and Isaac nods before glancing up.  His eyes stray over to where Scott and Stiles are hovering, and Isaac smiles as he waves.  There is a truck—rented—off to the side and filled with wood.  Tools are scattered about.  Stiles wonders how long this has been going on.

“What is all this?”

Stiles jumps as fingers brush through his hair, and he jerks—flinches—away from Lydia’s touch even as she frowns up at him.  He takes a step back and she lets him.  Sighing, she crosses her arms over her chest, expression carefully schooling into something her mother might give him in class.

“When was the last time you saw the light of day, Stiles?” she asks, tone sharp.

He shifts from foot to foot and ignores the question.  “Since when did we turn into a patchwork Pack construction company?”

“We’re building a home base.” Scott says, bouncing on his toes.  “So we have a safe-haven if we need it.  Deaton is gonna carve protective wards into the frame layer.  It’ll keep us safe.”

‘ _It will keep_ you _safe_ ,' goes unsaid.  Stiles can read between the lines.  He’s the useless member.  The one that gets possessed.  The bait.  The Zeppo.  Everyone has to keep him safe.

His jaw clenches briefly.  He spots Malia ambling up to Derek and leaning over his shoulder.  Derek smiles at her, easy and relaxed, and Stiles wonders if it’s a supernatural-creature-thing.  Wonders if the reason he doesn’t fit is because he’s unbearably human.  Something in his stomach twists.

“And the training?” Stiles asks, gesturing over to where Chris Argent is clapping a hand on Kira’s shoulder with a bright smile.  There’s an arrow sticking out of the target, just shy of the bull’s eye.

“Bonding,” Scott replies.  “All of this is Pack bonding.  Building together, working together, training together…”

Stiles’ brow lifts.

Lydia jumps on the silent question first.  “Allison is Pack.  Chris is sort of Pack-adjacent.  He doesn’t have anyone else and—“

“He and Derek are kind of bros now.” Scott finishes.  “I mean, not like we are.  But we’re all friendly.  And he knows how to train people.”

Stiles nods, looking more tired by the second.  “Okay.  Why am _I_ here?”

Scott’s expression falls and Lydia tries to step close again.  “Stiles—“

“Mr. Stilinski,” Peter’s voice cuts her off, and Stiles glances his way as the werewolf sets down a load of wooden beams at their feet, grinning and not even breathless; Stiles hates him, thinks about ripping into him and twisting his fingers deep.  He tries not to gag as he blinks back those thoughts, echoes of the Nogitsune still in his mind.  “Glad you could finally make it.”

“Would’ve come sooner, but my invitation just showed up in the mail.  Must’ve gotten lost.”

Peter’s grin broadens, though his eyes stray to where Scott is hovering at Stiles’ right.  “Better late than never.”

When Stiles doesn’t add anything, Peter looks back to him expectantly.  Stiles sighs.  “I suppose.”

“At least you came dressed accordingly.” Peter comments.

Stiles tries not to sneer as he takes slow steps down the freshly built back patio, brushing by as he heads over towards Chris and Kira and Allison.  “Comment on my clothes one more time and you’ll find all of yours in shreds.”

There is nothing but laughter in reply, and it warms Stiles in a way he didn’t know it could.  His skins crawls for a moment. 

Gravel and leaves crunch beneath his feet as he makes his way over to where Kira is drawing another arrow.  Allison is aiding her, and Chris notices him first.  He offers Stiles a smile, but Stiles can’t bring himself to return it.

Stiles watches as Kira pulls the bow taunt and then releases, striking just off center again.  It’s good to know that they’re all learning, growing, trying to prepare for the next Big Bad before it can even show its face.  Chris strides up to him, standing at his side just close enough for their shoulders to brush; Stiles shudders and takes a small step away.

“Scott said you’d be showing up.” Chris says.

Stiles’ brows pinch together.

“Figured I could show you a few things while the wolves are busy,” Chris adds, hand pressing between Stiles’ shoulder blades as he guides him over to another target; there is a fold out table and a few hand guns set neatly across the surface of it.  “Do you know how to use a pistol?”

Shrugging, mostly to get Chris’ hand off of him— _too hot, too close_ —Stiles idles up to the table.  Chris watches him for a moment before telling him to pick whatever he feels most comfortable with.  Long fingers dance over cold steel as Stiles surveys his choices.

He ends up with a Smith & Wesson that is remarkably similar to the one his father owns.  Most of the local officers carry G22 40s—classic and efficient 15-round pistols that only weigh about thirty-five ounces when loaded.  They have a comfortable grip, and trigger that doesn’t give unless you really want to pull it.

Stiles checks the clip first and finds it loaded.  He checks the chamber next after clicking the magazine back into place.  Chris hovers close, looking a little wary, like Stiles might accidently shoot his own foot off even though the teen is obviously pointing the gun away from everyone—including himself—as he grips it against his right palm while his left hand cradles the butt of the gun in order to steady his aim.

“Target is that way,” Chris says, drawing closer and making to adjust Stiles’ stance or grip or anything even as Stiles spreads his feet and aims at the target maybe forty feet away, tacked to the tree.  “The safety is still—“

Stiles’ thumb flicks the damn thing off, squinting with one eye for a moment, and then he pulls the trigger.  There’s a loud _pop_.  Chris covers his ears, but Stiles is happy for the momentary ringing in his ears—it screams while he can’t, screams in the ways he won’t let himself.

He fires again.  Then again.  Then again.  He doesn’t stop until the clip is empty, and by then everyone is watching.  With short, efficient movements, Stiles disassembles the gun—dropping the empty magazine out before sliding the top of the weapon so forcefully to the rear that if there had been a round still chambered, it would have popped out and tumble to the ground.  Turning slowly, he meets Chris’ surprised gaze as he locks the slide into place before breaking it away from the frame and setting the parts onto the table next to the empty magazine.

There is a long moment of silence; Chris stares at Stiles like he might be some kind of prodigy.

“What’s next?  Want me to clean it?” Stiles asks, tone dry.

Chris’ voice is rough when he speaks.  “Where did you--?”

“My dad’s a _cop_ ,” Stiles states derisively.  “Gun safety is apretty big issue at my house.  I’ve been shooting since I was eight.”

Chris nods slowly, eyes straying to the target over Stiles’ shoulder; even from here, he can see that Stiles didn’t miss the bull’s eye once.  He rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes a bit dark as he regards Stiles again, still nodding.  Stiles’ jaw flexes, and aside from his fingers drumming against his own thigh, he’s almost completely still.

“You’re good.” Chris says.

“Stiles,” Allison cuts in, tone awed as she moves towards his target, eyes tracking the bullet holes as she laughs.  “You’re _amazing_.”

Stiles swallows then shrugs.  “Should see me with a rifle.”

Allison laughs again, treading back as she admires the riddled target in her hands.  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Fidgeting, Stiles shrugs again.  “Never came up.”

Allison stops in front of him, handing the used target to her father as she smiles at Stiles brightly.  Christ inhales deeply, gaze tracking over Stiles’ handy work before flicking up to the boy in question.  The others are trying to watch the interaction as subtly as possibly, and Stiles knows they can hear everything.

“This is—“ Chris clears his throat, shifting, and Stiles spots Peter moving close out of his periphery.  Of course he’s the only one who doesn’t give a shit about subtlety.  “This is very impressive, Stiles.”

“Thanks.”

Peter hums in agreement as he peers over Chris’ shoulder.  Stiles doesn’t miss the way the hunter tenses, hand twitching, and he knows that Peter doesn’t either.

“Well, if you’re done trying to show the human something he clearly grasps already, I’d be happy to take him off your hands for a while.” Peter’s smile is all teeth, and even Allison looks uncomfortable, though the look is directed Stiles’ direction.

“Peter,” Derek chides from across the yard.

Scott jumps in, though, looking eager as ever.  “Actually, I was thinking hand-to-hand combat might be good for everyone.” At Stiles’ raised brow, Scott blushes.  “Okay, so Derek suggested it.  But it’s still a good idea, right?”

There are a few nods, some hesitant, and Chris takes pity on Scott first.

“Let’s clear an area then.”

* * *

Of course Stiles ends up with a concussion.  Of course. 

At least he’d managed to dislocate Isaac’s jaw before the werewolf used a little too much force—knocking Stiles onto his ass where he cracked his head against the ground.  Sparring had gotten very, very out of hand.

When he wakes, he instantly regrets it.  He only blacks out for a moment, but everyone is already around him, frowning their concern.  Scott asks him something, and Stiles can’t quite make it out.

He squints, everything too bright, and squeezes his eyes shut when his temples _pound_.  Chris manages to get him to open his eyes again, hands gentle as he coaxes Stiles to sit up.  The hunter checks the back of his head, talking, and Stiles feels like he’s in an episode of _Peanuts_.

“What?” he asks, tone sharp and brows furrowed.

“Move aside,” he hears Peter say, and then the man’s hand is under his chin and tilting his head up as Stiles winces.  “Name.”

“Not happening.” Stiles replies as Peter passes a finger in front of his nose, watching Stiles’ eyes follow it.  Scott tries not to laugh and fails, looking relieved as Stiles flashes a grin his way.

Peter sighs.  “Birth date.”

“April 8th, 1996.” He breaths, eyes falling back to Peter’s face as he drops his hands.  “Gonna ask me who the President is?”

“How do you feel?” Derek cuts in before Peter can retort.

“Like Isaac used my head as a basketball.” Stiles replies, rubbing the back of his head and hissing as his fingers run over the bump there.

Isaac shuffles, still rubbing at his jaw.  “Sorry, man.”

“It’s cool.” Stiles shrugs.  “No harm done.”

“Except what’s likely a mild concussion.” Chris adds, and Stiles’ nose wrinkles.  “You should get checked out at the hospital.”

“No,” Stiles is shaking his head and pushing to his feet—the others spread out, give him space.

“Stiles, my mom can look at you, it’s no—“

“ _No_.” Stiles bites out, palm pressing to his forehead as the world spins too quick.  “I won’t—I’m not going—“

His knee buckles, and then Peter is there catching him.  The man holds him up, even as Stiles tries to steady himself on his own two feet.  Stiles pushes at him, fumbling slightly, hating being touched—hating being _helped_.

“I’m fine.  Let go.  Let _go_.”

Peter tightens his grip, grinning like he’s enjoying making Stiles so miserable.  He probably does.

“Peter, I can take him—“ Scott says, but Peter shakes his head.

“Nonsense,” Peter smiles, pulling Stiles closer, and he tries to protest but is overwhelmed with a wave of nausea. “You should stay here, Alpha, and train with the rest of the Pack.”

That seems to do the trick.  Scott quiets, glancing around for a moment, and then nods stiffly.  Stiles grunts a sound of protest, and right when he balances himself, Peter drags him flush by the waist and coaxes another rush of dizziness.

“I can take him, Hale.” Chris says, voice terse, and Peter raises a brow.  “You’d be of more use here, oldest were and all that.  Maybe you could teach the Betas _control_ so that they don’t concuss their friends in a spar.”

Peter chuckles.  “You want _me_ to teach them control?  Really, Christopher, I’m shocked you think so highly of me.  Flattering, honestly, considering—“

“ _Peter_ ,” Derek snaps.

Chris’ jaw is flexing.  His eyes are bright and angry.  Allison moves close to her father, and there is a palpable tension.  When her hand drops to the blade at her hip, Peter growls, and more than one pair of eyes flash with warning.

“Put ‘em away, boys, I don’t even have a ruler right now.” Stiles grumbles and manages to push Peter away with a huff.  “If you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to go home and ice my head.  Probably drown my sorrows in the badassery that is Dana Scully.  And then maybe try to jerk off until my man-pain becomes literally so unbearable that I cry myself to sleep like Bella Swan.”

Lydia pinches the bridge of her nose, but she’s smiling like she’s relieved to hear the senseless stream of babble falling over his lips.  There’s a moment where all of them seem to ease with relief, Stiles’ humor crass and mindless and wonderfully familiar.  Derek hides a grin behind his hand as he rubs over the scruss of his jaw, and huffs out a laugh that sounds like a sigh as Stiles stumbles away from them.

“Someone needs to go with him,” Derek says, loud enough for Stiles to hear and flip him off in reply.

“I’ll do it,” Peter insists again, already trailing after him.  “I’ve been training since before you were born, Derek.  This is boring, and I’m not going to stand around and watch the puppies trip over their paws.  This is as good of an excuse as any to take my leave.”

Scott scowls.  “Don’t do anything stupid, Peter.”

“Me? _Never_.” Peter chuckles softly, striding away from their group and after Stiles.

He could catch up at any point, but he waits until Stiles is unlocking the driver’s side door.  Snatching up Stiles’ keys, Peter grins crookedly as Stiles turns too quickly and gets lost in the sudden tip-turn-twist that the world does under their feet.  Peter pushes him back against the solid metal of the door gently in order to let Stiles steady himself.

Stiles squint-glares for a moment and goes for his keys.  Peter holds them just out of his reach.

“Give me my keys.”

“You honestly think that’s going to happen?” Peter asks, brow lifted in condescension, and Stiles practically _snarls_.  “Do you _want_ to crash Roscoe again?”

Stiles’ jaw drops.

“Close your mouth, Stiles.  You don’t want anything to slither in.” Peter drawls, and Stiles’ teeth click together.  “Get in the car.  I’ll take you home.  No hospitals.  I promise.”

Stiles’ teeth grit tight, but he pushes away from the door and rounds the Jeep.  Climbing in, he settles in the passenger seat and snaps the door shut.  Peter takes the driver’s side, easily bringing the engine to life before he shifts into gear and pulls away from the Hale property.

Silence settles between them.  It isn’t quite comfortable but it isn’t stifling either.  Stiles is staring out the window, forehead resting against the glass, and his eyes fall hooded.  Peter watches him and the road.  At one point, he tells Stiles to stay awake, and earns a softly grumbled ‘fuck off’ in reply.  It makes Peter smile.

They pull up to the front of Stiles’ house in record time.  Stiles sighs heavily, slumping in his seat, and Peter kills the engine.  Twisting to face him directly, Peter regards Stiles, eyes keen.

“How’s the head?”

Stiles look at him dryly.

Peter chuckles.  “Give me your hand.”

“Wouldn't you rather watch me suffer?” Stiles remarks, but he places his hand in Peter’s and watches as the werewolf bleeds the pain out of him with veins of black.  It doesn’t make him any less dizzy, but his head stops pounding.

“I don’t enjoy your suffering, Stiles.” Peter admonishes.  “I might like watching you struggle or squirm—but certainly not because you’re in pain.”

Stiles puffs out a breath.  “You’re such a fucking creep.”

“Yes, well, it’s hard not to seem that way when I’m surrounded by teenagers all of the time.” Peter replies.

“Shouldn’t have bit Scott, then.”

Peter’s brow raises again.  It’s old hat, they’ve harped on this before.  It’s over, done with, settled—mostly.  So Stiles lets it drop.

“I’m surprised.”

“By what?”

“By you,” Peter says.  “I didn’t think you’d fold so easily.”

Stiles jerks his hand away.  “What--?”

“Pulling away like this, closing yourself off.” Peter continues.  “All of that guilt you harbor… I’m surprised you’re letting it consume you.  I thought you were stronger.”

Stiles sneers and retreats, pushing the car door open and slamming it shut after slipping out.  With a delighted expression, Peter follows, trailing close behind him.  The front door creeks open, and Peter catches it by the edge before Stiles can shove it closed in his face.

“Running won’t help, Stiles.”

“Go _away_ ,” Stiles snaps, shuffling over to the fridge—he pulls out a bag of frozen peas and presses it to the back of his head.

“If you keep doing this—“

“Doing _what_?”

“Shoving everyone away.  Closing off.  You can’t really expect me to believe that you’re content, being on the outer edge looking in.”

Stiles’ jaw flexes and Peter plows on, drawing close with slow steps.  Predator and prey.

“You, who nosed your way into every problem since the beginning.  You, who can’t leave well enough alone.  _You_ , Stiles, who _has_ to be involved—a finger in every pie.  This isn’t you.”

Stiles’ head tilts and he gives Peter a grin so dark that it’s almost like he’s reflecting a twisted image of Peter back on himself.  “People change.  Or don’t you remember being so crazy that you ripped your own niece in two?”

Peter hums, stopping right before him.  “Death does do interesting things, doesn’t it?”

Breath catching, Stiles glances away, refusing to meet Peter’s gaze.

“You’re scared.” Peter says, voice going soft.  “You’re scared and guilty and you hate yourself for everything that happened.  But Stiles…”

Peter reaches out, tips Stiles’ chin up, and he can see all of those emotions eating at him.  Sees all of the pain there, and for a moment Peter seems to revel in it. 

“Stiles, you have to know—Surely, you _must_ know that _none_ of what happened is your fault.”

Stiles sobs.  He slaps a hand over his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut, and his body—so thin, too thin—jerks with a wrecked sound.  There are tears, hot and salty, and Peter smells Stiles’ distress like lavender in the air.  He does not hesitate to pull Stiles close.

The crying doesn’t last long.  Stiles forces it down.  Even when he settles, Peter doesn’t let go, hand cradling the back of Stiles’ head as his thumb brushes behind Stiles’ ear.  Stiles doesn’t push away, but he does tense, and he feels so completely drained.

“When will it stop?” Stiles asks, muffled behind his hand, and Peter sighs.

“It won’t.” Peter says and Stiles lets out a harsh laugh.  “But it will get better.  You’ll heal.  Eventually.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything.  There is a question, though, hanging between them.  _Why the fuck do you care?_ Neither of them voices it.  It doesn’t matter right now anyways. It can wait for later; Stiles is too tired now.

“You should lay down,” Peter tells him.  Stiles sways slightly when Peter pulls away, but then nods, moving towards the living room.  “Try not to fall asleep.”

Stiels snorts softly.  “Yeah, sure.  Thanks.”

Peter doesn’t leave until John comes home.  He stays out of the way, lurking, but Stiles knows he’s there.  By the time Peter walks out the door, Stiles smells like burnt sugar and gratitude.


	3. to be given water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I feel like everyone is vastly OOC. I'm sorry if they are. Brief reminder that this was technically my first Teen Wolf fic. 
> 
> Yeah.

_“_ …the pool, beside which

a woman sits who would save me

if I needed saving, in a red suit, as if flame

 

is the color of emergency, as I do,

need saving, from solid things,

most of all, their dissolve.”

 - _Learning to swim_ by Bob Hicok 

* * *

After that, Stiles ends up at the Hale property every day.  He trains when they train—often paired against Isaac or Kira or even Scott while Derek or Chris watch them circle and spar.  Hand-to-hand combat is hard against supernatural creatures, but Christ reassures Stiles one Saturday that he’d give other humans—and even hunters—a run for their money.  Stiles is strong and quick, graceful when he understand a motion, but he is all limbs.  It is nothing like the raw power that the Nogitsune had showed, the potential, when hijacking Stiles’ skin.

It helps.  Being around them all helps, and sometimes Stiles catches Peter watching him from where he’s building or helping Malia with her control.  Most of the time, Sitles just _feels_ the werewolf watching him.  He knows, somehow, that the older man is proud of him for trying—even if Stiles still isn’t quite the same, still cold and closed off, but he’s _there_ and that’s a step in the right direction.  Whatever direction that may be.

Stiles feels uncomfortable.  Not right.  He feels _wrong_.  He’s scared that he’ll get stronger and lose himself in it, in the power, and then he’ll break them all apart like he nearly did last time.  He’s afraid of himself.  Of the demon that wears his face and whispers in his ear when he sleeps at night (not real not real _not real_ ).  He’s terrified that he’ll never find himself again.  Panic attacks are frequent, but never in front of anyone; he can’t be weaker than he already is.

No one really notices.  Peter does.  Sometimes Derek and Chris—even his dad.  People who know what guilt does to a person.  Peter, though, _sees_ it.  Sees _him_.

So when Stiles tries to sabotage his own training, Peter sees it.

Panting and sipping idly at a water, Stiles sits on the back patio—newly stained but still smelling like fresh cedar—and tracks Allison and Isaac as they move against-with each other.  Chris isn’t there today.  Derek is barking something at Isaac because Allison is schooling him with a smile on her face.  Lydia hasn't been there to sit and talk with him for the last week, too busy off in Dubai.  That’s what she said, at least, but Stiles has the sneaking suspicion that she went to visit a certain ex-boyfriend instead.

Scott, Kira, and Malia left for a lunch run twenty minutes earlier, and to be honest Stiles is _bored_.  He’s not going to complain though because he is nowhere near over the sympathy curly fries Scott has been stuffing down his throat.

“You could have had Isaac in that last round.” 

Stiles doesn’t look away from the fight unfolding in front of him.  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peter snorts indelicately.  “Get up.  Come help me with the railing for the stairs.”

“Can’t get up them on your own, old man?” Stiles asks, twisting around to see the wry grin on Peter’s face.

“Call me old again and I’ll have to show you just how young I can be.”

Stiles’ brows lift, his own lips twitching up, and he pushes to his feet slowly.  He pads up to Peter lazily, the sun having drained most of his rebellious energy an hour previous.  He comes to a stop in front of Peter, looking expectant, and he can feel the warmth radiating off of him. 

Peter’s glistening, in nothing but a black wife-beater and worn jeans, tool belt hanging haphazardly around his hips, and Stiles doesn’t feel ashamed for admiring him.  Stiles has come to accept that he’s surrounded by illegally attractive people.

“You gonna let me by or are we gonna stare down all day?” Stiles teases, and Peter steps aside to let him into the growing house—less skeleton and more flesh.  More life.  “What is it you need help with?”

Peter hums, following behind him, and his words bring Stiles to a stop in what will be the foyer—archways already branching off to the kitchen, to the living room.  “Actually, _you_ need _my_ help.”

“What?” Stiles turns to look at him, frowning.

“You’ve been holding back.”

Stiles’ expression twists with bitter amusement.  “No, I just can’t be expected to beat a werewolf after only a few weeks of training.”

“Allison is rubbing his face in the dirt right now—you really expect me to believe you can’t take a Beta down?” Peter draws closer slowly, and Stiles stands his ground with narrowed eyes.  “You may not be supernaturally endowed, but you’re strong, Stiles.  Very strong.”

And Stiles _has_ filled out a bit more since he stopped trying to waste away.  He’s not broad, but he has a compact kind of power in his frame—lithe and, given the proper guiding hand, gracefully lethal. 

Peter had told him a week back that he’s wondered what Stiles might look like with blood on his lips and a knife in his hand; it had made Stiles shudder, Peter’s voice low in his ear with those curious eyes keen on his face as he told him that he could smell a primal kind of chaos on his skin, and that if combined with his diehard loyalty, he’d be a force to be reckoned with.

“She’s a hunt—“

“Stop making excuses,” Peter cuts him off, and Stiles watches as Peter starts to circle.  “You’ve been running with wolves for two years, Stiles.  You’ve been beaten, tortured, possessed: you’ve lost friends, family, and even yourself.  You’ve _died_ , Stiles.  You’ve sacrificed everything for those who you love, and you’d do it again too.”

Stiles fidgets as Peter comes to a slow stop at his side, and he refuses to meet his gaze, looking forward even as he _feels_ Peter’s eyes roam. 

“Even half-mad I knew you were exceptional. I wouldn’t have offered you the Bite if you weren’t.” Peter says, ducking his head to catch Stiles’ eyes with his own, pressing in closer until there is barely a lick of space between them.  “Why hold back now?”

Jaw working, Stiles breathes out heavily.  “Why do you keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“ _This_ ,” Stiles gestures between them.  “This thing where you try and pry me open to look at my insides.  Is it some twisted scheme?  _What_ do _you_ get out of any of this?”

Peter is silent for a long moment, but when he finally speaks, his lips curl into an easy smile.  “Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ have some depth of character.  I _can_ care.  I care about Derek in my own fashion.  Cora, even if she isn’t around.  I care about Malia—who she might be, what that could mean to have my child back.”

Stiles flinches and looks away again.  Peter just laughs.

“Don’t worry.  I know Lydia told you her suspicions.  And I know that you two were… intimate at the madhouse.” Peter steps in closer, head canting.  “Not as intimate as _she_ might have liked, but—well, you might have been mentally unstable, but you certainly still had enough wits to stop at just a bit of heavy petting.”

Stiles glares over at him.  He straightens out, and for once actually looks his head, a fraction taller than Peter as the older man grins up at him. 

“I also know you don’t want her.” Peter adds.

“I don’t want anyone.” Stiles bluts out before he can stop himself.  “I can’t—“

“I know.”

Stiles’ teeth grit, and his jaw aches.  His hands flex at his sides.

“The point, Stiles, is that I do care.  A bit, at least.  Enough to want what little remains of my family to have a Pack.” Peter continues.  “To want a Pack of my own, in fact. And while I’m not overly fond of being with a Pack that mostly distrusts my every intension, nor do I enjoy working side by side with a former Beta that rejected me, the family of the woman that murdered mine, or those that burned me alive a _second_ time…”

He gives Stiles a pointed look, and Stiles doesn’t even appear chided.  At the oddly proud glint in Peter’s gaze, Stiles feels something warm unfurl in his chest like static and honey. 

“Despite all of that,” Peter says in a breath, gaze drifting down over Stiles.  “I like this Pack.  I’m fond of the majority of you, and I have a special attachment to at least half of you.  And _you_ , Stiles, are a crucial member of this Pack.”

Stiles scoffs.

“You are _important_ , Stiles.  To your Alpha, if nothing else.”  Peter snaps, as if there is a need to ingrain self-worth into Stiles’ skin.  Stiles winces and looks away—finally and unfortunately—and takes a step back from Peter.  He stops when a hand catches around his forearm. 

There is an echo, thrumming and rushing like the stutter of Stiles’ heartbeat, of that moment in the parking garage.  Peter’s thumb drags over the thump-thump of Stiles’ pulse; he sees the boy shiver and feels it reflect in himself.  Lips part, pink and plush, and Peter stares at his mouth before meeting his eyes again.

“If you’d let me Bite you, you would be his Second.” Peter breathes, brushing his thumb back and forth.

Stiles frowns.  He steps back and Peter steps forward.  Swallowing with an audible click, Stiles shudders and tries to stay calm even as Peter’s eyes flash that vibrant blue—the color of an innocent life lost.  Stiles realizes that if he had been bitten, he would have blue eyes like Peter and Derek do.

“I _see_ you, Stiles.  I’ve seen you since the beginning.  You can’t hide all of that potential from me when I already know it’s there.” Peter insists, grip tightening as Stiles pulls—trying to get away, to hide, to disappear.  “You would have made the most beautiful wolf.”

“But I’m _not_.” Stiles hisses, and Peter lets up the pressure a bit.  “You _didn’t_ Bite me.  I’m _not_ a wolf.  I’m not like you.  _Any_ of you.  I’m just—I’m just—“

“Human.” Peter finishes softly.  “Perfectly and incandescently human, Stiles.  _You_ are what keeps your _Pack_ human.  _You_ are important.”

Stiles stares up at him, eyes wide and brow furrowed.

“You’re essential for keeping them all together.  For keeping them human.  Scott tries, but he’s a were now, Stiles.  If you fall apart, so do they.” Peter says, expression earnest.  “That’s why I’m doing this.  That’s why I’m pushing you.  Because I won’t let you damn something I need, something I want simply because you’ve damned yourself.”

Stiles breathes.  In and out—steady.  Peter tilts his head, as if he’s listening to just that or maybe a bit more, and the words passed settle Stiles.  Because it means that Peter isn’t doing this for anyone other than himself really.  And that thought eases tension in Stiles.

Thumb brushing back and forth over the strong pulse at Stiles’ wrist, Peter loosens his hold a bit more, touching soft skin with an apologetic delicacy.  There is a bruise like a kiss on his arm, and Stiles watches quietly as Peter brings his hand up to his mouth to press his lips to the inside of Stiles’ wrist.  Stiles’ heart doesn’t even stutter.

His lips part.  Eyes flickering over Peter’s face for a moment before he lets their gazes meet, lock, hold.  Peter keeps his mouth pressed lightly to that fluttering beneath Stiles’ skin, like wings tripped in his veins, and inhales deeply.  Stiles fingers twitch. 

“Do I keep you human?” Stiles finally asks.  Peter almost looks grateful because he doesn’t have to be the one to fill the silence. 

“These days, yes.” Peter confesses unabashedly. 

Stiles’ brow lifts, and underneath the mirth in his gaze there is still a little boy who harbors guilt like a boat tied securely to the shore even though it’s sinking.  “You have an awfully funny way of showing it.  And by funny, I mean _terrible_.”

Peter just smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth looking sharp.

“Also, fragile human.  Thanks for the bruise.  Have fun explaining it to my dad.”

Laughing softly, Peter finally releases Stiles’ wrist, and he watches almost fondly as Stiles rubs at it.  “You’ve been going home with more interesting bruises than that.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “I’m aware of that, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Peter grins.

Stiles hovers for a brief moment, then moves—brushing by slowly.  Peter inhales the scent of him as he goes by,  and chuckles as Stiles’ nose wrinkles. 

“Come on, you jackass.” Stiles mutters.  “If I’m holding back so much, you might as well teach me how to let go.”

“You make it sound so frivolous.  You learning to fight to your full strength could be extremely useful, Stiles.”

“Yeah, whatever, harness my inner badass, blah blah blah.  Let’s get this freak show on the road, _Hale_.” Stiles mutters, moving away with a steady pace.

He comes to a stalled _stop_ in the doorway to the patio as Peter’s hand grips the back of his neck.  Breath catching in his throat, Stiles shudders in a way that has nothing to do with the sweat cooling on his skin and everything to do with the way Peter had caught up (fucking werewolves and their speed) and snuck up (fucking werewolves and their quiet fucking feet) on him.  He tenses, and Peter feels warm and strong against his back. 

Lips brush the shell of his ear, and Stiles feels a _rush_ of adrenaline flood through his system like a dam breaking.  Peter’s thumb brushes over his pulse point, and Stiles stiffens as a low laugh leaves him tingling from head to toe.

“It’s not about harnessing it, Stiles.” Peter says, voice low with something a lot like promise.  “It’s about _unleashing_ it.”

Stiles feels Peter’s fingers shift as they slip up, almost into his hair, and his gaze wavers where it’s staring blankly ahead as Peter breathes him in.  He knows his heart is pounding, though he feels almost too numb to recognize the sensation, he certainly sees the evidence when Derek looks their way sharply.  Peter chuckles again, eyes flashing, and Stiles definitely feels _that_.

“Did you know that you smell like honey when you’re frightened?” Peter mutters, and Stiles watches as Derek’s shoulder go rigid.

“I’m not scared of you, Peter.” Stiles replies, but Derek is already stalking over.

“Prove it.”

Stiles moves without thinking.  His elbow strikes back against Peter’s diaphragm, sharp enough to wind him just enough, and he twist around when the grip at his neck goes loose.  Deft hands snatch up the box cutter in Peter’s tool belt, thumb pushing the blade out long, and Stiles kicks one of Peter’s ankles out as he moves.

They end up chest to chest.  Peter is pressed to the door jamb that leads out to the backyard—half built but there—with a makeshift knife at his jugular.  The man laughs, delighted, as Stiles pushes against him and digs the blade in enough to draw blood. 

“I told you, didn’t I?” Peter says.  Stiles’ brows furrow endearingly and Peter holds his hands up in surrender.  He only realizes Peter is talking to Derek when a hand lands hesitantly on his shoulder.

“You’re an idiot, peter.” Derek huffs, squeezing at Stiles’ shoulder gently until Stiles eases off—not releasing Peter yet, but backing away enough to allow the shallow cut at Peter’s throat to heal seamlessly.

“Yes, but a smart one.” Peter breathes.  “I told you that he was holding back, dear nephew.”

“And you were right,” Derek mutters, looking like he wants to roll his eyes, and he pulls at Stiles’ shoulder again.  “It’s okay.  You can let him up.  If he tries anything I break one of his legs.”

Stiles’ lips twitch.  “Yeah.  Yeah, okay.”

He pulls back slowly, dropping his hand as he regards Peter, fingers clenching around the plastic handle of the box cutter.  Stiles watches as Peter wipes the blood away from his own neck, licking his fingers clean.  Flipping the knife over in his hand, he holds it out for Peter expectantly.

Derek glances between them, brow furrowed.  The other two are watching them curiously from the yard, though Allison appears much more tense, like she’s waiting to shoot a bullet between Peter’s eyes.  Peter takes the knife, gaze locked on Stiles’ face, and Derek can’t help but drop the gentle hold on Stiles’ shoulder as he feels like he might be intruding.

“You gonna stare at me all day or are we gonna get to work?” Stiles asks.

Peter grins and Derek scowls.

“Stiles—“

“If you lead, I’ll follow.” Peter cuts Derek off.

“Stop being a complete douche, Peter, and get on the field.  I’m gonna kick your ass.” Stiles says.

Humming, Peter shoves off the door jamb and moves over the proch and down the steps towards the yard.  “Don’t count your chickens, Stiles.”

“I never do,” Stiles retorts and follows after him.  “Especially when there’s a wolf in the hen house.”

As they square off a few paces away from each other, Peter barking out critiques for Stiles to change his footing and Stiles replying snidely before adjusting, Derek shares a long and disbelieving look with Isaac and then Allison.

By the time Scott shows back up with food, the three of them are sitting and watching Stiles smoothly dodge one of Peter’s punches.  Scott plops down next to Derek, head tilted, lap full of greasy junk food.

“Should I ask?”

“I wouldn’t know how to reply if you did.”

Scott hums, munching on a fry idly.  “Is this legitimate?”

“Peter is pulling his punches.”  Derek shrugs, and he reaches over to steal a few out of the bag.  “But Stiles is fast.  We’ll have to up his training.”

Scott just grins, nodding.  “You and Chris are gonna have your hands full.”

“Did you know he was holding back?” Derek asks, blinking over at him.

“It’s _Stiles_.” Scott shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  It kind of is.  “He’s always holding something back.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mentions of suicidal/self-harm thoughts
> 
> I feel like I keep saying this, but again, this story feels really stiff compared to others I've written for the pairing/fandom/whatever. Because it was my first and I didn't quite have a hold on the characters yet. 
> 
> Oh well!

“Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain

On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me

Remembering again that I shall die

And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks

For washing me cleaner than I have been

Since I was born into solitude.

Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:

But here I pray that none whom once I loved

Is dying tonight or lying still awake

Solitary, listening to the rain,

Either in pain or thus in sympathy

Helpless among the living and the dead,

Like a cold water among broken reeds,

Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,

Like me who have no love which this wild rain

Has not dissolved except the love of death,

If love it be towards what is perfect and

Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.”

_\- Rain_ by Edward Thomas

* * *

Stiles ends up cooking at Derek’s loft two to three nights a week.  It’s mostly weekends and then whenever his dad has night shift.  He’s not sure when it happened, somewhere between training himself with the Pack at the Hale property and taking full advantage of all the information Peter kept locked up on his laptop at the apartment.  Probably because he was getting sick and tired of eating delivery food when he ended up staying late at Derek’s most days of the week anyways.

Pack meals end up kind of being a thing.

The kitchen is warm as he works.  There’s homemade lasagna in the oven, and he’s mixing the batter for cookies that he’s planning to make for movie night.  He can hear laughter from the living room, and it makes him feel good to be so close to such frivolous joy.  He doesn’t think he’s ready to feel it again himself, but he’s getting closer to being okay with it.

The oven beeps, and Stiles sets aside the bowl in order to open the door curiously.  Sauce sizzle-pops, and Stiles grabs the dish towel off of the counter, treaching in to pull the pasta out.  The smell is heady, rich like oregano and garlic, and for a moment Stiles thinks of his mother.

“Need any help?”

Stiles jerks.  His hand presses to the hot metal of the rack above the one the lasagna is on, and he hisses as he pulls away quickly: burned.  The dish tips precariously at the edge of the rack, and Stiles goes to push it back onto sturdier ground when Peter is at his side.

Peter practically slams the oven door shut.  He pulls Stiles up by the elbow and ushers him over to the sink where he cranks cold water on before shoving Stiles’ hand under the faucet.  Stiles grunts, tries to pull away, and Peter pins him in with his body—chest flush  to Stiles’ back, arm around his waist, and a hand grasping Stiles’ wrist as he holds the back of Stiles’ hand under the water.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Peter mutters.

Stiles shudders heavily.  “You _cock_.”

Laughing, Peter presses Stiles against the edge of the sink, body firm against his as he leaches pain out of the angry pink of Stiles’ fresh burn.  “You’ll be alright.”

“You’ll ruin dinner.”

“It’ll be alright, too.”

Stiles finds himself clutching to the arm around his waist, heart beat slowing a bit.  “I’ll need ice.”

“You’ll need burn cream.” Peter corrects.

“It’s not that bad,” Stiles argues and shivers as Peter tightens his hold on him.  “I’ve burnt my hand on an oven before, Peter.”

“You’re clumsy.  How are you so clumsy?”

Stiles elbows him harshly in the stomach, earning a breathless chuckle.  “Get my lasagna out of the oven before the edges char.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter rumbles, lips just brushing the shell of Stiles’ ear as he pulls away.  “Keep your hand under the water—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles mutters, eyes on the puckered red of the skin on the back of his hand.  It’s gonna sting like a bitch later.

There’s the distinct sound of Peter turning the oven off.  Stiles is tempted to tell him to leave it on so that he doesn’t have to preheat it again for the cookies, but the idea of sticking his hands inside of an oven anytime soon sounds fucking awful.  He doesn’t realize he’s tense, shoulders rigid as he stares down at the back of his hand, until Peter places a hand at the back of his neck.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

“A bit,” Stiles shrugs a stiff shoulder.  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He feels a tingling sensation as Peter draws more pain from him.  “Burns aren’t fun.  Not even small ones.”

“You’d know.”

“Yes, I would.”

“I’m fine.” Stiles insists.  “I’ve hurt myself worse than this.”

Peter pauses, eyes narrowing.  “Stiles.”

“Hm?”

“Have you  been thinking about killing yourself?”

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles hisses, nose wrinkling.

“It’s an honest question.  If you’re hurting yourself—“

“ _No_ , Peter.  No.” Stiles replies quickly.  “I haven’t been hurting myself.  Not on purpose.”

“But have you thought about it?”

“ _No_.”  Stiles insists, moving to shut the water off, but Peter is quick to slide back into place behind him—holding his hand firmly under the water.  “I run with wolves and fight supernatural creatures.  That’s what I meant by I’ve been hurt worse.  Hell, lacrosse has earned me worse than this.”

Peter is quiet for a long moment, and Stiles knows he’s listening to the tick-tick of his heart.

“I need to teach you to be more careful.” Peter says, and Stiles is startled by the gentle press of Peter’s nose right behind his ear.  “What’s the fun in kicking someone when he’s already down?”

Stiles lets out a laugh that is stilted and sharp.  He feels Peter smile and swallows, mouth snapping shut.  Something in him tightens with sensation, and as Peter shifts to press flush to Stiles’ back again, it coils white hot until he feels warm all over.

Pins prickle under his skin as he grows flush, and his breath hitches once.  Then twice.  Heat coils low in his stomach, and Stiles recognizes it instantly as _arousal_.  He feels sick to his stomach.

Peter hushes him.  He holds him tighter as the panic unfurls in Stiles’ chest like a rampant animal.  Stiles is shaking, is trying to breathe, but his chest is tight and his head is swimming. 

“Five in, seven out, Stiles.” Peter tells him, one hand slipping over to rest over his heart, splaying out like a shield.  “Easy.  Breathe with me.”

He feels Peter’s chest rise and fall against his back, and he gasps a few times before trying to match it.  Stiles calms after a moment.  His heart slows back down, and his eyes squeeze shut.  When he finally settles, he feels too heavy.  Peter holds him up like he’s nothing.

Scott is there the next moment, eyes flashing a warning red from the doorway as he looks over his friend frantically.  “Stiles?”

“I’m okay,” he raps and Peter pulls away slowly as Stiles balances himself.  “I’m um.  I’m okay.”

Scott looks doubtful, but he doesn’t detect a lie.  “What happened?”

“Got burned.” Stiles says, and his voice cracks—which just make him laugh kind of hysterically.  “It was just—I was just—“

“Panic attack.” Peter cuts him off bluntly, arms crossing over his chest.  “He had a panic attack.”

Scott hums, nodding his understanding.  “You’re alright?”

Stiles nods.

Scott glances between the two of them, wary, and then he nods again.  “Tell me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Stiles says, and when Scott frowns, Stiles knows he heard the stutter in his heartbeat.  “Dinner’s almost ready.  Tell everyone to sit at the table and get everything ready.”

Scott leaves, recalcitrant, and once he’s gone, Peter looks over at Stiles knowingly.  Frowning, Stiles slaps the facet off, angry lines still drawn over the back of Stiles’ hand.  He turns away from Peter, moving over to the lasagna dish, fingers trembling.

“Stiles—“

“Stop.” Stiles hisses, glaring over at him.  “Stop doing this.”

“What?” Peter’s head tilts.  “Caring?”

“ _Pretending_. Trying to manipulate me into _being better_ for whatever fucked up reason you need me to be.  And stop _touching_ me—I fucking hate being—“

“Stiles, if you think I’m pretending you’re in for a very interesting surprise.” Peter says, voice low as his upper lips twitches into something like a snarl.

Jaw going tight, Stiles’ hands flex at his sides, focus falling back onto the lasagna.  Peter presses in close, though he pointedly avoids actual contact.  His voice is so rough that it’s nearly a growl.

“You have no idea, Stiles.  The lengths that I would go to for _you_.” Peter inhales sharply, deeply.  “I don’t care if you’re _broken_ , Stiles.  Personally, I think you should get over it.  But I know you’re _scared_.  So you can push me away just like everyone else, or you can let me help you—but I’m going to be here, Stiles.  Every day.  Whether you like it or not.”

Stiles bites the inside of his lower lip to keep it from trembling.  He stares stubbornly down at the stove top.  Peter reaches out a hand, and it hovers just a breath away from stiles’ back; when Stiles’ eyes squeeze shut, too much like a flinch, Peter’ hand flexes before he drops it back to his side.

Jaw clenching, Peter scowls.  He rolls his shoulders back, standing straighter as he takes a step away.  Stiles can feel the heat of his stare.

“Please feel free to let me know when you’re done being afraid of everything that might be good for you, Stiles.” Peter sneers.  “Because frankly, I’m getting tired of waiting around for you to realize you’re sabotaging yourself.”

Peter leaves.  Stiles knows he only pauses long enough to grab his coat before slamming the loft door behind him.  Before anyone can come check on him, Stiles plasters on a smile and carries the lasagna dish out to the table—careful to avoid the hot glass with his bare skin.

He’s been burned enough today.


	5. From Hands Comes the Dust of Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but to the point. 
> 
> WARNING: foul language

“…O, to take what we love inside,

to carry within us an orchard, to eat

not only the skin, but the shade,

not only the sugar, but the days, to hold

the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into

the round jubilance of peach.

 

There are days we live

as if death were nowhere

in the background; from joy

to joy to joy, from wing to wing,

from blossom to blossom to

impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.”

_\- From Blossoms_ by Li-Young Lee

* * *

“I fucked up.”

Peter snorts over the line, like it’s obvious, and lets out a put upon sigh.  “You’re only just realizing this?  Really, Stiles, I expected more.”

It’s been a week since they last spoke.  A week since the kitchen where Peter snapped and Stiles finally began to piece himself back together instead of just pretending to.  Sometimes he needs a swift kick in the ass to _get it_.

This has nothing to do with why he’s calling.  Peter can’t tell that, though.  Not through the phone.

“No, Peter, I—“

Stiles shifts, grunts, and bites back a pained sound as he presses harder over his own abdomen.  Even over the line, he knows that Peter has his head tilted just so.  For a moment he thinks that he should be more frightened by his knowledge of Peter’s mannerisms. 

But the fact that he called Peter instead of his father or Scott just goes to show that he doesn’t really have any right to feel that way.

“…Stiles,” Peter finally says, voice too pleasant.  “What’s wrong?”

“ _I fucked up_.” He repeats.

“Where are you?”

“I was—I was just out walking, Peter.  I was just out walking.  It clears my head and—“

“Where _are_ you?”

“—keeps me from going crazy.  Dude came out of—Peter, he came outta nowhere and I—“

“Stiles, I need you to tell me where you—“

“—mouthed off.  Of course I fuckin’ mouthed off.  _Of course_.  I’m gonna die in an alleyway because a mugger _stabbed_ me, Peter.  Nothing—Nothing supernatural about it.  Nothing—“

“I need a _place_ , Stiles.  Where do you last remember--?”

“Liquor store.” Stiles says, voice shaking, and he’s not surprised that he’s crying—shock, he guesses.  “Off of main and sixth.”

“I’ll be there.”

The phone beeps.  The line goes dead.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tight.  He’s scared, so scared.  It’s been a long time since he actually feared for his life instead of wanting to end it.

He lets out a little sob, and the pain of it is intense.  Doubling over, he wheezes out a sound, body hot and cold at the same time.  There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin, and he looks so pale.  There’s so much _blood_.

The sound of tires screeching on pavement catches his attention.  Looking up dazedly, he offers a meek little smile at the sight of Peter launching himself out of the driver’s seat.  Peter slides to his knees in front of him with a ridiculous and absurd amount of grace.  Hands hover for a moment, and then Peter touches him.

Stiles flinches away, and Peter let’s out a distressed sound that he doesn’t seem to realize he makes.  “Let me see, Stiles.  Let me—I need to get you to the hospital, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head.  “No, not—“

“ _Yes_ , Stiles.” Peter insists, scooping him up without waiting for permission and carrying his practically limp body over to the car.  “You need care that I cannot give.  You will _not_ die tonight, do you hear me?”

Stiles laughs, cringing as Peter sets him in the car as gently as possible, buckling the passenger seat belt over him.  “Big bad wolf takin’ care of little ol’ me?”

Peter pauses, giving him an earnest look.  “I will always find a way to take care of you, Stiles.  Whether you like it or not.  You’re very important.”

“To who?”

“To the Pack.” Peter says.  “And to me.”

Stiles’ jaw clenches.  “Take me to the hospital.”

“Good man.” Peter grins.  “Keep pressure on that wound.  You aren’t even close to dead yet.”

The door snaps shut.  The next thing Stiles hears is the engine revving.  Driving to the ER takes less time than Stiles thought it would, but then again, maybe Stiles dozed out through a part of it.

Melissa McCall is the one that helps him onto a stretcher.  They rush him inside, and Peter jogs after the whole way until they tell him he can’t follow.  It’s every bit as dramatic as the movies, with a nurse pressing him back by the chest; they both know he could shove by, that he wants to shove by, but Stiles’ head lulls back as whatever drug they’ve started pumping into him starts to take effect.

* * *

When he wakes, he’s scared he’ll find blood on his hands and a body at his feet.  Instead, Peter and his father are talking quietly in the doorway with matching cups of coffee.

“Oh, god, it’s worse than I thought.” Stiles mutters, voice rough as he struggles to sit up.

His dad is at his side in an instant, pressing him back flat and letting the bed do the work for him, buzzing faintly as it raised up.  “What is?”

“You two. Talking.  I really must look like shit.” Stiles says softly.  “Is it Tuesday?  It must be Tuesday.  I could never get the hang of those.”

Peter looks like he wants to laugh, but he rounds the bed to his other side, brow lifting.  “I called your father after they took you into the OR.  I know the hospital would’ve gotten to it, but I thought he might prefer a more personal touch.”

John pats Stiles’ shoulder gently.  “How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

“Like I got stabbed,” Stiles croaks, slumping in his bed slightly, hating how stiff the sheets are.  He can’t imagine six years of the damn things.

Peter places a hand at his wrist, and John watches as Peter leaches some of the pain away for him.  His brows slide up his forehead, and he looks back up at Peter’s face expectantly.  Stiles sighs.

“Super cool werewolf powers,” he explains idly.  “Scott’s got ‘em too.  Kinda drug-like.”

“Though, not nearly as addictive or detrimental.” Peter adds, pulling his hand back, though Stiles is quick to catch it.

“Dad? Can I--?” Stiles’ voice cracks and he clears his throat.  “Can I get a second alone with Peter?”

John frowns.  “Should I be worried?”

“I want to thank him.” Stiles assures.

John nods slowly, moving away towards the door.  “I’ll go let Melissa know you’re awake and see where we go from here.”

The door shuts with a soft click and Stiles lets out a breath of relief.  Peter hovers quietly for a moment, and pulls his hand away when Stiles’ grip loosens.

“How’s the pain?” he asks.

“Miniscule.” Stiles says, shifting beneath the sheets to pull up his hospital gown, his side covered in secure bandages with plenty of gauze.  He wonders for a second how many stitches it took.  “Thank you.”

“It was nothing—“

“No,” Stiles looks up at him, gown dropping, and he gives him a small smile.  “Not for being super powered.  Thank you for coming for me.  For getting me here.  For telling my dad.  For being really fucking annoying recently—“

“I think I get it, Stiles.” Peter cuts him off dryly.

“I don’t think you do.”

Pausing, Peter tilts his head, brow raising.  Stiles clears his throat, holding Peter’s gaze steadily.

“Everyone else—“ Stiles wavers for a moment.  “Everyone else wanted to brush it under the rug, but you—You pushed me to prove I wouldn’t break, and I was an ass about it.”

“Stiles,” Peter says, voice soft.  “You set a burn victim on fire. You’ve always kind of been an ass.”

Stiles laughs.  Loudly and abruptly, until there are tears in his eyes.  He clutches his side and laughs; Peter gives him an easy grin and pats his shoulder. 

By the time the Sheriff is back, Stiles is settled and talking to Peter softly from his bed as the man sits in a chair at his side.  They’re both smiling.  For the first time that night, John Stilinski doesn’t feel that sharp stab of panic in his chest.


	6. it's not so much that nothing means anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Have fun. Hate me later. 
> 
> WARNING: foul language

“… such sadness: everything trying to

break through into

every day should be a miracle instead

of a machination.

in my hand rests the last bluebird.

the shades roar like lions and the walls

rattle, dance around my

then her eyes look at me, love breaks my

bones and I

laugh.”

_Fingernails; Nostrils; Shoelaces_

by Charles Bukowski

 

* * *

The door opens with a bang.  They struggle in, Peter’s arm draped heavily around Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles is practically dragging him.  There’s blood on Stiles’ face, on his clothes, and it’s not just his own.  They’re both completely wrecked.

Halfway to the couch, Stiles stumbles and they fall.  Peter grunts and squeezes his eyes shut; Stiles curses and fumbles, shoes slipping over the floor, still wet and caked with mud that’s flaking off of his shirt like ashes.  He gets Peter up again and hauls him over to the couch.  It’s a rush of movement, quick because he knows that hiss adrenaline is waning.

Stiles shoves him down onto the soft surface without a trace of gentleness.  His fingers shake as he crouches at his side, reaching into his back pocket for the knife is father insisted he start keeping there.  He cuts it from hem to hem, shearing it wide, and there is the claw marks in Peter’s abdomen.  There’s blood _everywhere_.

“Why aren’t you healing?” Stiles mutters, dropping the knife aside and shrugging out of his button-up until he’s in nothing button a loose cotton t-shirt.  He presses it to the wound, and Peter groans.  “Peter.  _Peter_.”

Stiles smacks him, leaving smears of red over his cheek.  He grips his jaw firmly and turns Peter’s face to his.  Blinking, Peter finally focuses on him, grunting when he tries to shift.  There’s definitely blood on Derek’s couch.  Stiles can’t bring himself to care.

“Peter, _why_ aren’t you healing?” Stiles asks from between grit teeth.

Peter blinks again.  “Wounds from some supernatural creatures take longer to heal.  I’ll be alright.”

Swallowing, Stiles nods.  “What do I do?”

“Kiss it better.” Peter says drolly, and it’s like he’s already coming back to himself, like he’s already mending. 

“ _Peter_.”

“Jesus fuck, Stiles.” Peter sneers, hands pressing over his.  “Apply more pressure.  The less blood I lose, the faster I’ll get better.”

Stiles looks a bit pale, but Peter doesn’t comment.  They stay like that for any number of minutes, Peter’s hands heavy over Stiles’, flesh mending slowly under the weight of Stiles’ shirt.  Stiles’ jaw works, expression distant even as he stares right at their hands. 

“I should be back out there with them.”

Peter huffs out a sharp breath.  “Yes, because that’s _such_ a good idea.  If these things can take down a werewolf, what makes you think you’ll stand a chance?”

Stiles doesn’t even look at him.  “Shut the fuck up, Peter.”

Peter chokes on a laugh.  “You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“You’re superhuman.  I shouldn’t have to babysit you.” Stiles says, tone sharp.  “I should be out there.  I should be helping.  I should be doing something.”

Peter sighs.  “You’re doing something right now.”

“I should be doing _more_.  I should be doing so much more.  I can fuck shit up like a pro, but I can’t do a damn thing to _help_ —“

Peter’s mouth catches his.  It’s off-center and too hard, their teeth clicking at first, unfinessed as Peter cradled Stiles’ face in his hands.  It doesn’t last long.  A second later, Peter is pulling back and going lax against the couch.

Staring, Stiles goes completely still.  He watches Peter, quiet and wide-eyed, lips parted just slightly.  His hair is still a bit wild, blood and dirty still littered over him, but he’s finally flush enough to lose that sickly pallor he’d had the entire way back to the loft.  Peter smiles; it’s slow, lazy, and self-satisfied.

“Look at that,” Peter hums, pulling reluctant hands away from his own side—the shirt shifting to reveal angry red lines that look like they’re healing nicely.  “Guess I really did need that kiss.”

Stiles’ expression pinches.  “Fuck you, Peter.”

“Give me an hour and I should be up for it,” Peter replies.

“This isn’t a joke.” Stiles says, tearing his hands out of Peter’s grip.  “God, you’re such a fucking _prick_.”

“Guilty.” Peter nods, propping himself up onto his elbows, the tatters of his shirt falling away.  “But I was just proving you wrong.  That you can help.”

“Yeah, well, great job.” Stiles stands.  “Have fun cleaning up your own mess.”

“Stiles,” Peter chides.  “You got me out of there.  You let those with more strength take the lead.  You protected who you could—including yourself.  You did the _right_ thing.”

Stiles’ grin is more of a snarl.  “Right, because you have so much experience doing the right thing.”

“No,” Peter admits.  “But I know it when I see it.  Thank you for helping me.”

Stiles falters, jaw flexing, fingers uncurling at his sides.  “You can’t do that.”

“Kiss you?”

“Act like a jerk and then act like a decent human being.  You’re giving me whiplash.” Stiles retorts.  “And don’t get hurt again.  I can’t—Your blood is _everywhere_.”

Peter tilts his head, then nods.  “Alright.”

“Okay.” Stiles nods, gaze skirting over Peter’s chest and lingering.  “You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.  Thank you.”

“Whatever.  Don’t be an asshole about it later.”

Peter smiles.  “I’ll try my best.”

Stiles snorts.  “Liar.”

“You like it.”

There’s hesitation.  But Stiles ends up nodding.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I do.”

“Good,” Peter breathes, laying back over the couch. 

They don’t kiss again.  Stiles helps him clean up, and Peter doesn’t even tease him when his fingers hover each time over Peter’s skin.  Stiles has to help him up stairs and to the spare room, laying him out carefully.  He chatters the whole way. 

It’s a welcome sound.


End file.
